Conspiracy Theory
by MalllladeImaginaire
Summary: Bustopher Jones gets a nasty shock when trying to have dinner at one of his favourite restaurants and his evening goes rapidly downhill from there... xx (This used to be on my old account, but I've re-posted it on this one ;) )


It was a wonderful sunny evening. The sky was a beautiful shade of pink, edged in dark blue and yellow with fluffy clouds, stained orange by the last light of the sun. Houses, lampposts, trees were all silhouetted against the magnificent sky and the air was warm and still. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the trees and only the soft, far-away sound of traffic and the muted buzz of conversation disturbed the otherwise perfect silence. In short, it was a dream of an evening.

Bustopher Jones was sat at his usual place, tucked away in the corner of one of the most prestigious restaurants in London. As always, he was seated on his rich silk cushion just in the window, concealed from view by the heavy velvet curtains. It was his table, permanently reserved for the enormous tuxedo tom. Hard as it was for normal people to get a reservation, the restaurant staff made sure Bustopher's table was always available for when their most important feline client decided to drop by for dinner.

_Dinner. _Bustopher sighed. That was the reason he made sure they kept a table permanently ready for him at this particular restaurant. Their food was superb. Every time he visited they had some wonderful new recipe prepared for him. A trio of lobster, duck breast and pan fried figs in a bordeaux wine sauce, beef tenderloin with a mushroom and parmesan crust, quail consommé flavoured with celery in puff pastry, seared scallops with truffle shavings, chocolate and caramelized pear tart, Andalusian Gazpacho and so many more delightful dishes. The mere thought of them made the large tom's mouth start to water and he wondered what treat was in store for him today.

As if on cue a smartly dressed waiter began to weave his way through the tables towards where Bustopher was seated. In his hand he was carrying a large plate covered by a shiny silver cloche with a small gold handle. The large tom's eyes followed his path though the crowded room, fixed on the plate in his hands, expectantly waiting for what was sure to be an amazing meal.

In seconds the waiter had reached the spot where the large black and white tom was sat. "Good evening," he said, bowing slightly. "Enjoy." And removing the cloche, he headed back to the kitchen ready to bring the next customer their meal.

Bustopher sniffed expectantly, eyes closed, savouring the moment. That first sniff, the first hint at what delights lay in store was almost as good as the food itself. The tuxedo cat inhaled deeply, expecting to be greeted by the wonderful scent of fresh cooking. To his surprise there was nothing. No smell came from the plate at all. His eyes snapped open. Something was wrong.

Looking down at the plate Bustopher was horrified. It was a salad – a _salad_. The presentation was immaculate. Dainty cucumber rings were arranged in a circle round the outside of the plate, alternating with cut-in-half cherry tomatoes, the lettuce leaves were all arranged like the leaves of a flower and there were several flower-shapes made out of carrot in the middle, making the whole thing look like a giant water lily. A delicate french dressing was drizzled over the whole construction giving it a watery effect, like dew on the petals of the flowers.

The large tom was utterly flabbergasted. Never in his entire life had he known such... such... Words actually failed him. How dare they serve him, Bustopher Jones himself, the cat about town, the smartest feline London had ever and would ever see, a _salad_. It was practically an insult! They should _know_ how he felt about fresh vegetables! No self-respecting cat would ever, _ever_, eat fresh vegetables. What on earth did they take him for? Vegetables were for health psychos, vitamin freaks, people who exercised. It was pure rudeness, beyond measure. How _dare _they!

Disgusted and frankly rather revolted, Bustopher got to his feet. It was the last time he'd be dining _here_! They could forget it. There were plenty of other restaurants in London, plenty of better restaurants, quite frankly. Restaurants that valued him as a regular customer and wouldn't dream of serving him a _salad_. With as much disdain as he could muster, the large cat stalked out of the restaurant, nose in the air.

Half an hour later the enormous tuxedo tom was perched on a bar stool in a corner of a pleasant little café he had discovered several months back. They served the most amazing cakes and breads he had ever tasted, not to mention a mouth-watering array of sandwiches , breakfasts and ice creams, his particular favourites. This was bound to cheer him up. A nice bowl of coffee and a large slice of cake would do him good after the shock he had had earlier. Inwardly, Bustopher was still seething about the salad situation. How _dare_ they show his such disrespect! It was unbelievable!

Forcing himself to remain calm was rather a difficult matter, but eventually Bustopher succeeded. He was not going to let this one little thing spoil the rest of his evening. He would have a nice meal here and then go on to the theatre, maybe watch some Shakespeare, that always cheered him up. Othello was still playing, if his memory served him correctly. That would be a nice treat. The lead actor was said to be very good, a must-see performer. Bustopher Jones had been looking forward to getting the opportunity to see this new star in a really good play for quite a while now. Before, he had only seen him in some terrible amateur stuff. Such a waste. Talent like that really needed the right...

His thoughts were interrupted by a pretty, little waitress coming over carrying a plate. This café lacked the style and sophistication of the previous restaurant he'd been to, but definitely made up for it in charm, the tom reflected. The waitress was very sweet, dressed in a very traditional dress with an apron, the tableware was nice and old-fashioned, not forgetting good quality and the whole ambiance was generally charming and quaint. That was really what had attracted him to this particular café in the first place, the atmosphere.

As the plate was put down in front of him Bustopher let out a sigh. Finally, some decent food. He sniffed deeply at the sandwiches on his plate, clearly not having learnt his lesson from last time. All he could smell was bread. No sausage, no ham, no cheese, no tuna, nothing. Horrified, Bustopher pulled apart the top sandwich. Salad! Again!

How could this be happening to him? Twice in one day? It was unbelievable! Who exactly did these people think they were? Serving him _salad _sandwiches! The cheek of it! What an insult! Well, he definitely wasn't ever coming _here_ again either. If this silly, little café couldn't even serve him decent food they didn't deserve him as a customer and more than the other restaurant! Angrily Bustopher Jones stormed out of the offending café. He'd just go and have dinner somewhere else. Simple!

In actual fact it turned out not to be that simple after all. The next three places Bustopher visited all served him a _salad _instead of any proper food! What on earth was going on?

Confused Bustopher made his way into the sixth restaurant of the evening, which was quite frankly turning into something of a nightmare. By now it was dark, the sun having set a good few hours ago and getting rather cold and the large tuxedo feline was ravenously hungry, his stomach rumbling noisily every few seconds. The theatre performances would all be well under way by now, so he had missed all those, leaving him with no entertainment for the entire evening. This could not be happening!

Sitting dejectedly down at the table he was shown to, to wait for his food, Bustopher Jones began to think. Why on earth would all his favourite restaurants suddenly start serving him... he couldn't even bring himself to think the word any more. Surely it was too much of a coincidence for them all to...

Then suddenly it hit him. A conspiracy! It must be! What other reasonable explanation was there? Bustopher jumped up out of his chair as if he had been electrocuted. They were all conspiring against him! Trying to damage his reputation for some reason. Maybe they'd even had cameras trained on him the whole time, trying to get a photograph of the Brummell of cats eating a salad. That would really have ruined his reputation. He would never have been respected or taken seriously again! Bustopher was shocked beyond belief, not to mention horrified and utterly stunned. How had he not seen this before and what was he going to do about it?

At that moment a waiter came over carrying a large dish. Quickly Bustopher sat back down again. They were probably watching him right now. Best not to let them know he was on to them. The fat tom put on his usual expectant facial expression and waited.

The dish was deposited in front of him and the waiter paused briefly to pat his favourite cat on the head. "Good evening, old boy. You probably won't like this very much, but it's for your own good, you know. You've been getting far too fat recently, it's not healthy, especially not at your age. We talked to the other restaurants and we all agreed to serve you nothing but healthy food and salads until you've lost the weight. I'm sorry, old boy." And with that he disappeared back into the kitchens.

He didn't even need to look at the dish to know it was another salad. The waiter had just confirmed all his worst fears and suspicions. It was all some massive conspiracy! Thunderstruck, he got to his feet and almost in a daze walked back out the grand double doors again. They were trying to ruin him - all of them.

Shaking his head, the cat about town made his way down the road. It would never work. He was on to them now, he knew their little secret, understood the sadistic game they were playing. Steely determination glinting in his eyes Bustopher set off in the direction of his home. He would not let them win. He'd show them. Just carry on as normal, that'd teach them they couldn't intimidate him! He'd just have to take some food from home instead of eating out. It couldn't be that hard. Their little conspiracy was going to fail – miserably!

Still brooding about his conspiracy theory Bustopher Jones marched off into the night.


End file.
